


Moving Through Labyrinths

by romanticalgirl



Series: Monthly Challenge Fics [6]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl





	Moving Through Labyrinths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akamine_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/gifts).



Mikey’s hand shakes as he brings the pen down. He stops before he touches the surface with the metal nib, because he has to get this perfect. He’s not an artist, not like the other people in his life, but he _can_ write. He has words that swarm in his head and block out the good and the bad until there’s nothing there but them. Sometimes they get swallowed by what’s really in his head, but other times he can get them down and out and safe.

“It’s all right.”

The words are soft, reassuring. Mikey swallows and nods then takes a deep breath. The skin gives easily under the metal, but he’s ready for that. He spreads his fingers around it and draws the skin taut so that he can write. Slowly. Carefully. The ink soaks in and the red comes up, rising in the form of the letters he’s leaving behind. He presses hard enough that he scratches the skin as well. It won’t be permanent like a tattoo, but it will linger, his story written on someone else’s skin.

He covers the shoulders and the hollow of his neck. He’s not sure what the words are, what story he’s telling. He thinks there should be some unifying theme, something that leaves indelible marks in the world, not just in flesh. He knows that isn’t who or what he is though, so he just keeps writing. Maybe they make sense. Maybe they don’t. He can’t read them because he’s writing so fast, barely even thinking them before they’re gone into the ink.

The shoulder blades are rows of black and the bumps of his spine are like a map of Mikey’s words. He keeps writing, holding his knees tight against hips. He knows his dick is hard and straining against the boxer-briefs he’s wearing, but he doesn’t feel it. Whatever urge or need that fuels his erection is lost in the letters. He stops to breathe and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. He’s sweating though the room is cool. 

Mikey can feel the twitch of muscle beneath him, but it stills before he moves, ruining Mikey’s manuscript. The words are halfway down his back and Mikey wants to read them, trace his fingers over them, mouth the words in more ways than one. He wants his tongue black like in “The Name of the Rose” from licking the sharp lines, the curves and swirls. Instead he adjusts the pen in his hand and writes again, hearing the soft gasp as the nib digs in a little harder than before.

Mikey has to move as he gets to the small of the back, the angle of his hand hurting his wrist until he slides further down his legs. His ass swells from the hollow, the soft skin making the words harder to write, but making the red marks come up so much better. He’s moving more beneath Mikey, making breathy little noises that remind Mikey of his erection. Mikey’s tongue darts out, tasting the salty sweat on his upper lip. “Shh.” Mikey’s voice cracks, feeling weak and unused. It causes another shudder beneath him, and a trail of ink slides down onto the sheet. “Shh.”

He stills beneath Mikey, though he’s not still. His breathing is erratic and shaky, and Mikey knows he’s even harder than Mikey. His hands are fisted in the sheets beneath him, struggling not to thrust against the bed. 

“Almost done.” It’s a lie. Mikey plans to turn him over and write down his neck, pressing hard like thumbs against his adam’s apple. Down his chest in horror stories and fairy tales. Across his hips with teeth and metaphors. He wants to scrape the nib along his dick and feel him shudder, watch the thick milky come make the ink smear and blur.

“Liar,” he chokes as the tip of the pen slides just inside the crack of his ass, the soft loop of a g or a j or a y. Mikey knows he’s too far gone to try to figure out what the words are, what Mikey’s writing. It’s a strange sense of power, different from sex and yet similar too. Mikey pauses his writing to slide a finger between the crack of his ass, press lightly against the tight muscle. Another shudder beneath him, another desperate gasp. 

Mikey tilts his head and sets the pen aside. He should move the ink so it doesn’t turn over, doesn’t spill on the sheets and blacken his stomach. He doesn’t. Instead he takes the lube and slicks up his fingers – no way he could hold the pen now – and spreads his legs, pushing his legs apart, opening him up to Mikey. The skin is flushed red, his balls dark. Mikey can see the hint of the swell of his cock, the dark vein that pulses as Mikey presses his finger against him again.

He’s tight, a desperate kind of ready. Mikey works him open with one finger and then two, a third that has him gasping and begging. He feels cruel, and it feels good, so he makes him wait for a fourth. Now he’s making noises, too far gone for words, too far gone for _Mikey_ to make words. The edge of the condom package is inky, and the mattress is probably worthless now, black-stained like Mikey’s fingers.

He gets the condom on and presses against him, rising up on his knees to push inside his raised ass. Mikey can see his cock for a moment, can see how hard and thick it is, can see tendrils of black on the skin. It’s another kind of power, and Mikey thrusts, holding his hips and feeling the words sink into his thumbs as he keeps moving. They meet and grind together and Mikey leans forward, words against his chest photocopied with sweat.

Mikey reaches down to take his cock in his hand, palming ink and flesh. There’s a groan of syllables, and Mikey’s not sure who it is that makes it, their words melting into one complete incomprehensible sentence. He loses control, and Mikey slicks his hand with come and strokes him more, until there’s silence but for the slap of skin. When Mikey finally comes, he’s buried deep and they’re both a smear.

They collapse on the bed and Mikey pulls out, sharing the wet spot of cold ink. He turns his head and finds Mikey’s eyes, a smile dancing across his lips. “It says ‘Batman’ all over me, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm,” Mikey hums. He doesn’t remember the words, because they’re gone from his head. No more thoughts that darken his head, instead they darken his skin and exist somewhere else in the world. “Something like that.”


End file.
